


merry and bright, lovely and light

by saltsanford



Series: the sex and coffee verse [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Red vs Blue Secret Santa, background kimbalina, red vs blue secret santa 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 02:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9052288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: Wash quashes down his fears of irate neighbors and thirty drunk people sleeping on his floor, and steels himself. He is ready. He is wearing an ugly snowman sweater and a Santa Claus hat. He is going to turn around and take this bowl of Kai’s famous sangria into their apartment, and he is going to serve it to everyone with enthusiasm. He’s got this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr user aziles, for the 2016 RVB Secret Santa gift exchange! I hope you like it. :) By the way- this is no way important to the story, but for anyone curious, this fic takes place in the same universe as the sex and coffee thing.
> 
> I SERIOUSLY OWE THIS FANDOM SOME FLUFF, SO...enjoy, and happy holidays!!

In hindsight, maybe moving in with Tucker a month before the holidays wasn’t the brightest idea. 

Thanksgiving had been rather…Wash doesn’t know if _intense_ is quite the right word, but it sure comes close. They’d spent the day at Tucker’s parents, who had been hosting that year, and Wash had counted thirty people in their house at one point before he’d given up. Tucker’s father had thrown an arm over Wash’s shoulder and ensured that he had a glass of wine in his hand at all times, Tucker’s mother had pulled him aside and told him with misty eyes how wonderful it was that her had found such a nice boy, and he’d somehow gotten pulled into a rather serious game of capture the flag with Junior and his cousins that took up five neighbors' backyards. It had been—well. It had been _nice_ , in a way that Wash had been utterly and completely unprepared for. He had walked away from that party with three bulging bags of leftovers, certain of one thing:

The Tuckers _loved_ the holidays.

Wash reflects on this in something of a stupor as he comes to an abrupt halt in the doorway of Tucker’s apartment— _of_ their _apartment,_ Wash corrects himself. The reminder sets something warm blooming in his chest, and it’s almost enough to drown out the dazed reflecting he is currently doing.

Almost.

“What….” Wash pauses, changes tracts. “Where did you _get_ all of this?”

Tucker and Junior both freeze in the act of untangling what must be twenty-five yards of Christmas lights. The two of them are surrounded by half a dozen boxes full of decorations, and the huge tree that brushes the top of the ceiling is nearly sagging with ornaments. Wash is slightly alarmed to note that there is still another half a box to go, despite the fact that most of the tree branches already have two ornaments on them.

As Wash gazes around the living room, he catches Tucker and Junior side-eying each other. A moment of wordless communication passes between the two of them, before Tucker clears his throat, nudging Junior forward.

“ _Awwww_ ,” Junior says, while Tucker hastily kicks five ginormous shopping bags behind the couch. “You weren’t supposed to be home yet!”

“I….” Wash’s eyes flick back to Tucker as something in one of the shopping bags topples over. Tucker dives behind the couch, muttering furiously under his breath, and Wash gives his head a little shake. “I got off work early.”

“It was supposed to be a _surprise_ ,” Junior says. “We were gonna wrap your presents and put them under the tree and _everything_!”

“It’s alright, Junior,” Tucker says, emerging from behind the couch and sweeping his dreads out of his face. “Now Wash can help us decorate!”

“Oh,” Wash says. “Oh, that’s okay, you guys can keep going. I’ll just…I’ll just start dinner.”

“Uh, okay, so _one_ , you’re not touching the stove, I’m making chicken parm tonight and it’s gonna be awesome, and _two_ , I can’t unknot these lights for the life of me so you should totally come help.”

As Tucker throws some serious puppy eyes his way, Wash realizes several seconds too late that he’s still hovering ominously in the doorway, car keys clutched in his hand as if they’re a lifeline. Junior’s smile wavers as he glances around at all the decorations, then back to Wash. “You _hate_ it.”

“I don’t!” Wash says quickly. “I don’t, really, I just didn’t realize you guys had so much…stuff. That’s…a _lot_ of decorations.”

“It’s Christmas, Wash,” Tucker reminds him with an eye roll, but he sounds a little crestfallen too. “You don’t have to be such a grinch about it.”

“I’m not being a grinch!” Wash steps into the apartment and pulls off his hat and jacket, shaking the snow from them. “You caught me off guard, is all—”

“Do you hate Christmas?”

Wash is starting to wish that his shift had run a little late, after all. “No! Junior, I do not _hate_ Christmas—”

“’Cause we don’t have to put all of these up,” Tucker says. “It’s cool, I know we tend to overdo it a little but—”

Good God. “I love Christmas!” Wash says, striving for enthusiasm and ending up sounding panicked instead. “I do!”

Junior is still pouting a little, face crumpling in the exact same way that Tucker’s does when he’s upset about something—and yep, there it is, right on cue, an identical expression falling across Tucker’s face.

Two pairs of big brown eyes stare at him morosely, and Wash gives in. These two were going to be the death of him. “Actually—I just wanted to surprise you. I thought I’d throw a party,” he says casually. “You know. A Christmas party.”

Tucker and Junior light up so spectacularly that they put they Christmas tree behind them to shame. Wash thinks his words might have been worth it for that alone, even as he silently berates himself for them, because he’s never thrown a party in his _life._ “I wanted to see if it was okay if we threw it here,” Wash continues anyway. “I thought we could make it an all-day thing. Have some of Junior’s friends and your parents over in the daytime, then continue it at night with our friends.”

An _all day party._ It’s as if he’s completely lost control of his mouth, but Tucker and Junior look so thrilled at the very prospect that Wash squares his shoulders and faces his doom head-on. “That sounds awesome!” Tucker says eagerly. “Dude, we can totally throw it here! When were you thinking?”

“The 17th,” Wash says, improvising wildly. “That’s…that’s a Saturday, right?”

“Sure is.” Tucker grins. “You need some help? Tell me what do to.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wash says bracingly. “I’ve got it under control.”

He doesn’t, not even a little bit, but as Junior gives him a high-five and resumes decorating the tree with a renewed enthusiasm, Wash can’t bring himself to take it back. He is committed. He is _doing this_.

* * *

“A party? Oh, _Wash._ ” 

“I know,” Wash groans, resting his forehead on the café table. “I don’t know _what_ I was thinking.”

Donut clucks his tongue, patting Wash on the head. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’ll be fun!”

“Fun,” Wash says flatly. “A Christmas party. Fun.”

“Of course, silly.” Donut pauses. “I mean, you _have_ been to a party before, right?”

Wash lifts his head off the table to roll his eyes at Donut and take another desperate sip of his latte, which does not have nearly the amount of caffeine that he needs to get through this nonsense. “Yes, Donut, I’ve been to parties before.”

Donut tilts his head. “Then what’s the problem? We’ll make a Facebook event and decide who to invite, bake lots of cookies, host a white elephant gift exchange, maybe come up with a theme and a few signature drinks, figure out which of Junior’s friends want to come for the earlier part of the party, make sure we have enough champagne for the evening toast, come up with an Instagram party hashtag, and boom! We’re in business!”

By the time Donut finishes, Wash is staring at him, mouth slightly ajar. He spends a few seconds struggling to find the right words, but in the end, all he can manage is, “A _theme?_ ”

“Yeah! Like an ugly sweater party or something!”

“An ugly sweater party,” Wash says faintly. “Donut, I’m not throwing an _ugly sweater_ Christmas party.”

“Oh, come on,” Donut wheedles. “It’ll be fun! Everybody loves those!”

“No, they don’t,” Wash says, rather sharper than he meant to. “People hate them, because they’re _stupid_.”

Donut regards him thoughtfully, as he props his head in his hand. “You’re awfully tense, Wash. Everything okay?”

“I just…” Wash trails off, fiddling with the cardboard wrapper of his coffee cup. “This is important to them, alright? To Tucker and Junior. I don’t…don’t wanna fuck it up, is all.”

“But you won’t!” Donut says eagerly, and reaches out to cover Wash’s hand with his own. “They’ll love whatever you do, and besides. I’m going to help you.”

Wash perks up at that. “You will? Really?”

“I sure will!” Donut says. “Wash, _trust me_. We are going to throw the best holiday party this town’s ever seen.”

* * *

 

They run into their first problem that very night, after Donut drops Wash off at his empty apartment with a list of things to do to prepare for the party. Wash sequesters himself in an armchair, tugs his laptop across the coffee table, and spends a frustrating fifteen minutes trying to create a Facebook event before texting Donut. Less than a minute later, he gets a response:

_Donut: it’s on the lefthand side u goof!_

_Donut: it has a lil calendar icon next to it_

_Wash: okay but why can’t i invite tucker’s coworkers_

_Donut: ru facebook friends with them_

_Wash: no_

_Wash: does that matter?_

_Donut: yeah_

_Donut: it’s fine just add me as a host and i can do it_

“Right,” Wash mutters. He squints at the screen, spends another five minutes clicking around uselessly, and grabs his phone again.

_Wash: omg i cant figure it out_

_Wash: also how do i create an Instagram hashtag_

_Donut: what_

_Wash: u know_

_Wash: like u said we have to create an Instagram hashtag for the party_

_Wash: so is that something i have to sign up for? how does it work_

_Donut: wash oh my god_

_Donut: im back coming over_

Wash groans, dropping his phone onto the couch and closing his eyes briefly. _Pull it together,_ he chastises himself. _You can do this. It’s just a party. You can do this—_

“Whatcha doing?”

Wash yelps, nearly sending his laptop tumbling to the floor as he spins around to see Tucker draped over the back of the couch. He slams his laptop shut hastily and shoves it away as Tucker tracks the motion with raised eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“Uh, clearly,” Tucker says. He narrows his eyes at Wash. “Why do you look so guilty?”

“I don’t,” Wash insists. “I’m _not._ I mean.”

Tucker rolls his eyes, climbing over the back of the couch until he lands next to Wash, a mischievous light in his eyes as he glances at the laptop again. “Were you shopping for Christmas presents? For me?”

“Maybe,” Wash says, latching onto this at once. “But it’s, uh, it’s a surprise, so no snooping.”

“I know how presents work, you dork.”

Tucker grabs a pillow and rests his head on Wash’s lap, pulling out his own phone and looking as if he’s settling in for the long haul. Wash busies himself with braiding a few of Tucker’s dreads together, which is much, much nicer than trying to create Facebook invite pages or whatever. For a moment, he contemplates texting Donut and telling him to forget the whole thing, but a single glance at the sagging tree, so lovingly decorated, steels his nerve. “Donut’s coming over,” he tells Tucker. “To help plan the party.”

Tucker lowers his phone, glancing up at him. “Really?”

There’s an almost undetectable note of alarm in Tucker’s voice which Wash zeroes in on at once. “Why? Is that bad?”

“No no,” Tucker says quickly. “It’s just, Donut loves parties.”

“Okay…”

“Like, _really_ loves parties. Like _a lot._ ”

Wash opens his mouth to reply, but at that moment there is a quick knock on the door as Donut flings it open and sweeps into the apartment. “Okay, I’m here! Don’t worry—”

He stops short when he sees Tucker, eyes zooming between him and Wash. “ _Heyyyyy_ there, Tucker! Is Junior home?”

“Nah, he’s at his friend’s.” Tucker sits up. “Wash says you’re here to help with the party.”

“Sure am!” Donut says enthusiastically. He plops down on the couch next to them and whips out three separate color-coded planners. “ _Now,_ boys, we only have a week, you understand?”

As Donut gets to work on creating the Facebook page, Wash can only drag a planner over to him and sigh.

* * *

 

The next week is a flurry of activity, during which Wash spends every spare moment trying to prepare for the party. It isn’t so bad, at first. Buying presents for Tucker and Junior is a breeze, and planning the first half of the day for Junior’s friends and their parents is much simpler than he was anticipating. Everyone is all too willing to bake cookies or bring a pot roast, and in the end all Wash has to do is set aside of a few bottles of wine and convince Sarge to bake his famous chocolate chip cookies, with the promise that Wash will never reveal their source.

It gets far more complicated when it comes to planning the after hours party with their friends. Somewhere between Church cornering him in the parking lot and swearing up and down that there was no way he was participating in an ugly Christmas sweater contest, and running into Grif pushing a full cart down the aisle in the liquor store aisle to “get them started,” Wash starts to feel more than a little apprehensive.

“It’s just a small party, right?” he asks Donut nervously one afternoon at the supermarket. “I mean, our apartment isn’t that big.

Donut pauses, arms precariously full of bags of sugar and flour before Wash reaches out to help lower them into the cart. “Sure it is!” he assures Wash cheerfully. “Don’t you worry your pretty little freckled face about a _thing_.”

But Wash has his phone out, scrolling suspiciously through the Facebook event page. “Donut, this is _a lot_ of people…”

Donut waves a hand, pushing the cart forward. “Oh, don’t worry about _that!_ They won’t all come!”

“Well…alright, if you say so…” Wash glances down at the cart, frowning. “How many cookies do I have to make, anyway?”

“These are for Tucker to make, not you,” Donut says. “Look, all you have to do is make a batch of this kind here, alright? Look, the ingredients are right on the side…”

* * *

 

 _Famous last words,_ Wash thinks wildly three hours later, as he throws open every window in their apartment and waves a towel at the smoke detector. “Just make one batch…I’ll give him _one batch_ …”

The fire alarm cuts off, granting Wash three seconds of blessed silence before Junior’s voice nearly startles him into an early grave. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“None,” Wash says in despair, once his soul has returned to his body. “None. At all. Whatsoever.”

Junior climbs onto a stool at the breakfast bar, eyeing Wash’s cookie disaster cheerfully. “You’ve never thrown a party before, _have_ you? Like at _all._ ”

“Not once,” Wash says. He opens the oven door and sighs. “ _Don’t_ tell your dad, alright?”

“I won’t,” Junior promises. A mischievous glint that Wash knows all too well enters his eyes. “ _If_ I can stay for the afterparty.”

Wash gives him a look. “Junior, that’s way past your bed time. Besides, none of your friends will still be there.”

“You’re my friend,” Junior says in a long-suffering tone. “And so is Church, and Donut, and everyone! Come on, why not?”

“Because it’s past your bedtime,” Wash emphasizes. “Besides, there will be mistletoe. For people to kiss under. Know what that means?”

Junior frowns. “What does it mean?”

“It _means_ ,” Wash says, scraping the bad batch of cookies into the trash can, “that Church and Tex are going to kiss under it. A _lot._ ”

Junior makes a face. “Gross.”

“Exactly.”

“But I wanna stay anyway.”

Wash sighs, putting the bowl down and folding his arms. “Alright, look. You help me start this batch of cookies before your dad gets home, and you can stay at the party for an extra hour— _if_ your mom says it’s okay.”

“ _Yesss!”_ Junior pumps his fist and vaults off the chair, skipping around the island to grab the bag of chocolate chip cookies. “Man, this is gonna be _so_ fun….”

* * *

 

“Hey, sleepy head. Wake up.”

Wash groans, pulling a pillow over his head that Tucker promptly whips away, bending down to blow a raspberry on the back of Wash’s neck. “Gah! _Tucker!_ ”

“It’s getting late,” Tucker says cheerfully. “C’mon, up and at ‘em, we got lots to do!”

Wash rolls over, throwing an arm over Tucker to turn the clock towards him. He collapses on Tucker’s chest, groaning. “Tucker, it’s seven a.m. On a weekend. Since when are you a morning person?”

“Uh, since we have a bomb ass party to get ready for, that’s when?” Tucker blows another raspberry on Wash’s neck and with a sigh, Wash rolls off of him.

“Alright, let’s get started…”

The day flies by. Tucker makes more cookies than seems humanly possible, Junior unearths yet another box of decorations, and Wash spends half the morning texting people to confirm what they’re bringing. Junior’s friends and their parents show up around noon, and Wash is pleasantly surprised to find the entire affair relaxing. The hours slip by, and he’s just started to feel lulled into what he will later recognize as a false sense of security when there’s a knock on the door. Wash opens it to reveal Kaikaina Grif and three of her friends, each struggling under the weight of giant boxes. “Hey, Freckles!” she says brightly, before tossing a glance over her shoulder at one of her friends. “See, I _told_ you he was a mega-cutie.”

Wash blinks, startled, before he recovers and takes the box out of her arm. “What…what _is_ all of this?”

“The _party favors,_ of course!” she says, shimmying past him into the apartment. “Where do you want me to put them?”

“Uh…”

Wash is spared from having to answer as the last of Junior’s friends departs, and he walks them out to the parking lot. “Good luck,” the boy’s father says to him gravely, leaving Wash standing in the parking lot blinking at the spot where the man stood.

“Thanks,” he says to thin air, as the car drives away. As Wash watches, Grif’s truck pulls into the lot, Caboose bouncing in the front seat. He leaps out of the car the moment Grif pulls it to a stop, wrapping Wash in a gigantic bear hug.

“It’s so good to see you, Wash! This is going to be the best party ever!”

“It’s…good to see you too, Caboose…” Wash trails off as Caboose lets him go and opens the hatch to Grif’s truck bed. He hauls a keg out from the back, hefts it over his shoulder, and cheerfully heads into the apartment complex.

“Here,” Grif grunts, shoving a covered glass bowl filled with a bright red liquid. “It’s Kai’s holiday sangria.”

“Oh,” is all Wash can manage, as Simmons unfolds himself from the tiny backseat of the truck, dragging a box filled with several bottles of liquor. Grif grabs a box himself, and the two of them start towards the building. “Are you sure we need all of…that….”

Wash watches, resigned, as three more cars pull into the parking lot and even more people tumble out: Tucker’s co-workers, Carolina and Vanessa, and Donut himself.

“Donut,” Wash hisses, as Donut and Doc stroll over to him. “Why did I just watch Grif roll up with enough alcohol to sustain a small army? And why does Kai have three boxes of party favors? And—and— _who are those people?_ ”

He gestures at another car full of people, all dressed in ugly sweaters and Christmas hats, roll out of their car and head, towards their apartment entrance, arms laden with even more booze.

Donut squints at the group. “Those are….Ness’s co-workers, I think?”

“They’re not,” Vanessa says. She has one arm linked through Carolina’s and a basket full of what smells like banana bread in the other. She has also, Wash is unsurprised to see, managed to turn her ugly sweater into a cute little dress, and a pair of light-up snowflake earrings blink cheerily in her ears. Carolina has thrown on an old, stretched out reindeer sweater that Wash knows for a fact she wears to bed on a regular basis, but she looks simply radiant as Vanessa absent-mindedly intertwines their fingers together. Wash catches her eye and grins a little: it had been a long, hard year for the both of them, and it seems impossible that they are both here, where their only concerns were how to look good in an ugly sweater—

 _And_ figuring out how in god’s name to pull this party off without the cops showing up. “Donut, _how many people_ did you invite?!”

“Ehh…” Donut waves a hand while Doc rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, like fifty?”

_“Fifty?”_

“Oh, don’t worry Wash,” Vanessa says brightly. “It’ll be fun!”

“Promise,” Donut says, and with that, he whips out a Santa Claus hat, sticks it on Wash’s head, and marches into the apartment complex.

“Fun,” Wash says, left alone once again the parking lot. “Right.”

He turns around and glances back at the window into his and Tucker’s apartment, where he can see all the guests mingling. As he watches, Junior catches his eye and gestures wildly for him to come inside.

“Fun,” Wash says again, softer this time. “Right. Okay. Fun.”

Wash quashes down his fears of irate neighbors and thirty drunk people sleeping on his floor, and steels himself. He is ready. He is wearing an ugly snowman sweater and a Santa Claus hat. He is going to turn around and take this bowl of Kai’s famous sangria into their apartment, and he is going to serve it to everyone with enthusiasm. _He’s got this._

He’s almost at the door when another familiar car enters the parking lot, and Keisha, Junior’s mother, steps out. She glances up at their apartment window, an all-knowing look in her eyes. “Let me guess. Donut?”

“Bingo,” Wash says weakly, and she laughs, linking her arm through his.

“Come on, you. Let’s go see this party Junior hasn’t stopped talking about for like, the past two weeks.”

“Oh God,” Wash groans, allowing her to tug him inside. “ _Don’t_ get your hopes up.

Keisha gives his arm a little pat. “You worry too much. Trust me, that kid thinks you are the _height_ of cool.”

He shoots her a doubtful look and she laughs. “Did you give him his present yet?”

“Oh—no, I was waiting until Christmas.”

“You should give him that one now,” she says. “I want to see his reaction.”

They’ve reached the apartment door and although Wash braces himself, he’s pleased to see that the scene that greets him is relatively calm. Kai snatches the punch bowl out of his arms with a huff of, “finally,” throws a winks at Junior’s mom, and waltzes off to the kitchen.

“Mom!”

Junior nearly knocks them both over as he slams into Keisha’s legs. “Mom, I don’t have to leave yet, right? Wash said I could stay for two hours—”

“I said you could stay for _one hour_ ,” Wash corrects.

“We’re not leaving, little man,” she says, bending down to kiss Junior’s forehead. “Mama wants to visit a little. Why don’t you go over to the tree with Wash? I think he has a present for you.”

“Really?” Junior asks, then makes a beeline for the tree, almost crashing into Tucker.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?”

“I’m going to give him one of his presents,” Wash says, as Tucker wraps Keisha in a hug. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah dude, go crazy.” Tucker kisses him full on the mouth and pulls back, eyes bright. “Dude, this is _awesome!_ Party favors and everything!”

“It’s not too much?” Washs asks nervously, as ten more people pour in the door behind him, clapping Wash on the back and slapping Tucker’s outstretched hand.

“No, it’s great!” Tucker says. He reaches up to tug at the pom-pom on the end of Wash’s Santa hat with a grin. “ _Also,_ if you wanna wear _this_ a little later…”

Keisha rolls her eyes, melting into the crowd as Tucker kisses Wash once more.

“ _Daaaaad_ ,” Junior calls from across the room. “Stop kissing Wash! He has a present for me!”

Wash untangles himself from Tucker and weaves his way across the room, pulling out a carefully wrapped present from behind the couch. His stomach flutters unexpectedly as he hands it to Junior, who looks simply delighted at its size. He tears it open at once, and Wash folds his arms tightly across his chest as he ignores the small crowd watching them.

He needn’t have worried. Junior’s whole face lights up as he frees the box of its wrapping paper and spins it around to face him. “A skateboard?! You got me a _skateboard?_ This is so cool!”

“I can teach you how to use it,” Wash says. “And uh, there’s some YouTube tutorials that are pretty good—”

“You’ll teach me? _Really?_ Can we do it now? _Can we start now?_ ”

“It’s a little icy outside now,” Wash says with a grin, “but uh, as soon as the weather clears a little.”

Junior yanks the skateboard out of its box, running his hands over it in excitement. “This is so cool! I’m gonna watch some videos right now!”

He leaps to his feet, throwing his arms around Wash’s waist and beaming up at him. “Thanks, Dad!”

Wash freezes as Junior runs off, staring wide-eyed at the place where he stood. “You’re welcome,” he says, the noise of the party continuing around him as if nothing monumental just occurred. Wash glances around, dazed, to see Tucker staring at him with big eyes.

For a moment, Wash feels inexplicably nervous. They’d never talked about what Junior might someday call Wash, and he doesn’t know how Tucker might feel about it—but as he watches, Tucker’s face melts into the softest smile Wash has ever seen, eyes crinkling and filled with a warmth Wash wants to wrap himself in forever.

And as Junior crashes back into the room and sits right down on his skateboard to start looking up skateboard tutorials, as Tucker continues to gaze at Wash as if he hung the stars in the sky, it’s suddenly all spectacularly, unquestionably, worth it. Wash will happily do it again, will throw the two of them a party every week, will wear an ugly sweater every goddamn day of the year, if it means his family will look like this: happy, and safe, and positively brimming over with love.

Tucker holds out a hand and Wash goes to him, allows him to tug him to a quiet corner of the room. “You,” he says reverently, pushing Wash’s Santa hat up to kiss his temple, “are fucking _magical_.”

“Was that okay?” Wash asks. “Was—all of it, okay?”

Tucker nods, his grin widening. “Dude. It was _so_ okay. Junior loves you, you know that.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, watching the party grow around them. Kai is handing out glasses of sangria while Keisha cuts up more fruit, Carolina is laughing at something Vanessa is whispering into her ear, and Donut is telling a highly animated story to all of Tucker’s co-workers, who are howling with laughter. It’s lovely and light and easy, and something that Wash never thought he would have in his whole life.

“It’s cool, you know,” Tucker says suddenly. “If the holidays aren’t your thing. I know they suck for a lot of people. I didn’t mean to like…call you a grinch. Or spring all of this on you.”

He gestures at all of the directions, hand nearly sending one of a dozen ceramic snowmen flying off the shelf, and Wash reaches out to steady it. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s….well. It’s just been a long time since I’ve had someone to celebrate the holidays with.” He smiles ruefully, gazing around their apartment. “I think I’m a little rusty.”

Tucker grins, reaching out to ruffle Wash’s hair. “Nah, it’s cool dude. You got the two most important parts right.”

Wash catches Tucker’s hand, tugging it to his chest. “And what are those?”

“You made my kid happy,” Tucker says. They both glance over to where Junior is enthusiastically watching skateboarding videos on Youtube, perched on top of the one Wash got him. “And two…”

Wash blinks as Tucker moves in closer, until he can see every fleck of warmth in those brown eyes. “You remembered the mistletoe.”

Wash barely has time to glance up as Tucker cups his face between his hands and kisses him, soft and sweet with just enough promise of _later._ It fills Wash with warmth and an indescribable happiness, that he is here, with Tucker, with Junior, with all their friends.

With their family.

And if a picture of them kissing ends up in Grif’s snap story the next day with the caption “MISTLETOE UP MOTHERFUCKERS,” well.

Wash only minds a little.


End file.
